


I'll be Hidden in the Truth, I'll be Laying Amongst the Lies

by milkybreads (allthemilkbreads)



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Ashton is Michael's assistant, Calum is Luke's boss, How Do I Tag, Inventor!Michael, Luke is from the future, M/M, Michael is from the 1800s, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthemilkbreads/pseuds/milkybreads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't step outside. You'll be dead before your foot hits the pavement."</p><p>Most of the time, you hear about these things after they happen. A world, lost to smoke and flames, or consumed by a disease. The people of today speculate about these tragedies, however we would be helpless if something were to actually occur. There will be no one left to tell our tale, no "afterwards," if we don't act soon.</p><p>Or the one where Mikey is a new age inventor of the 1800s on the verge of something great and ridden with grief about his mother's death, and Luke is sent from the future to prevent the apocalypse from happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I've enjoyed writing it. I'll aim to update about once a week. Song for this chapter is "Heathens" by Twenty One Pilots. This is my first ever fanfiction so I hope it is well-received. If you enjoy, please give kudos or comments. :)

Pitch black. After a few minutes of Luke’s eyes attempting to adjust, he concludes that there is no light whatsoever. Only whispers. They echo, and although the acoustics of the room make them sound like they are bouncing down an endless tunnel, he is accustomed enough to the high-domed ceiling and marble floors of the Board’s meeting chamber to recognize it as such. The whispers surround him, taunting him with "10 minutes until Extraction," and "You have failed. He has been Wiped," in overlapping frantic voices that start to sound like siren wails as time passes. If Luke reached out, it seemed like he would be able to touch the barricade of bodies closing around him. 

Just as Luke drops to the floor, clammy palms clasped over his ears, the lights flicker on. 

Except they aren't the brilliant bulbs held in the pristine chandeliers of the meeting room. It's the flickering yellow lights hanging from naked bulbs in the hallway leading to the Committee's offices and the Board's room. It's the day of the Extraction. 

In an instant, a barrage of worries overcomes him, and he hunches over for a moment before regaining his composure. 

These thoughts worry at the careful composure he had constructed for today's meeting with the Board, until they condense into an obstructing haze brought on by anxiety. The haze seems to convulse and send out wispy tendrils randomly, as though it is searching for something. As one of the snaking vines gropes drunkenly towards the boy, he tries to make a sound, but finds he cannot. Abruptly the haze turns into a swarm of hornets, which descend upon him. 

Just as Luke feel their first piercing stings, he bolts up in bed, finally free of the net of the dream. His body is covered with an icy sheen of cold sweat, unsurprisingly. Of late, his nightmares have been worsening, including real fears and worries that ghosted into his subconscious. The blonde boy reaches out a frail hand, still clammy and shaking, to brighten the screen on his phone, to find himself to be almost late. "Shitshitshit" plays as a mantra in his head as he struggles into a black shirt, washed-out jeans, and an old pair of sneakers. Luke’s "work uniform." No need to be fancy today. Only the most important meeting in his career approaching. And possibly the last. 

Within 15 minutes, he’s out the door and blending in with the busy work scene at the Boards' headquarters, still adjusting the collar of his shirt. Luke calls out to any Board members he crosses paths with, and some of them acknowledge him with a curt nod in return. Luke considers this a small victory, as they are habitually introverted. 

The fabrication of his confidence only lasts so long, as it did in his dream, and as if it was a physical thing it starts to weaken and crumble. At first Luke was immune to the whispers of "That's him, the advocate, “and "The Ghost will awaken soon. He's bringing scum into this world," but as time passes and the hallway seems to stretch out forever, he shies away from their cruel hisses. 

At long last, Luke comes to the double mahogany doors, which had seemed to pierce the sky when he stood here as a little boy. He flinches away from the memory, then swears at his own cowardice, startling a few already-jumpy passerby. He squares his shoulders, brushing off memories of his past with a real family, and enters the conference room.

When Luke passes through the heavy mahogany doors, which swing open silently under his touch, a barrage of voices enter his mind. The sight would have been an eerie one for someone more unaccustomed to the Board's ways: A dozen or so young men, cleanly shaven and dressed crisply in matched suits, gesturing animatedly to each other, mouths moving, but not a sound escaping.

"Mr. Hemmings," the Board's leading speaker, Calum, addresses Luke inside his mind. He nods at the younger boy from across the room, his formidable form and towering presence making him appear as tall and mighty as the intricately carved ceiling arching above them. With another glance, silence cloaks the room.

Accompanied by the rustling of pressed suits, they make their way to their seats along the sprawling marble slab of a table. It's appearance, along with the rest of the meeting room, is grand and haughty and precise. Luke got a cut once by running his finger along its edge. 

Once Luke is seated, he folds his arms on the table like a diligent schoolboy, but after a few minutes, his eyes become lidded and his head drops onto his arms. He didn’t have much say on the topic of the Extraction of who the Committee nicknamed the "Ghost," the newest subject of interest who the Board would be transporting from the past to stop the looming apocalypse. Luke supposes he is referred to as such because the remainders of files the Board managed to save after the explosion that would have Wiped him of all valuable information suggested that he only had a ghost of his past intact. It seemed he had taken a knife to all ties to his mother's death. Luke found this subject analysis the most interesting part of his responsibilities. It made him feel like he knew actual people, not just the boring ones who were employed in the Committee. Guess preventing the world's catastrophes didn't leave much time for humor. Or a life.

Luke’s main job is to stand in for his deceased mother. He was the deciding vote in whether to extricate the Ghost or continue searching for a nonexistent cure.  
Luke was brought back to the present moment by a cool female voice reverberating through the room, "One minute until Extraction." The shuffling of papers got more rapid, hands clenching around the owner's ESOs, tiny electronic devices that project holographic images that we use to keep an eye on the outside wasteland and communicate with each other. On cue, a squad of four Board members stood up simultaneously, high-backed chairs scraping against the polished marble floors. Two to execute the Extraction, two to guard the Portal entry. 

"Send them through. We have exactly 10 minutes until the Extraction is complete or he is Wiped." Then, with the click of a button, a gaping ingress opened in the floor and the Board members were swallowed.


	2. A New Leaf, An Old Leaf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't step outside. You'll be dead before your foot hits the pavement."
> 
> Most of the time, you hear about these things after they happen. A world, lost to smoke and flames, or consumed by a disease. The people of today speculate about these tragedies, however we would be helpless if something were to actually occur. There will be no one left to tell our tale, no "afterwards," if we don't act soon.
> 
> Or the one where Mikey is a new age inventor of the 1800s on the verge of something great and ridden with grief about his mother's death, and Luke is sent from the future to prevent the apocalypse from happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay chapter two! This chapter is focused on Mikey and Ashton and it's set in the 1800s (well, kinda. I reference some stuff from the 1800s but I don't really use older language in order to keep it still understandable.) The song for this chapter is "Make A Move" by Icon for Hire. I'll aim to update this fic in a week or sooner. If you enjoy, please give kudos or comments! :)
> 
> Trigger Warning: this chapter contains a mention of a character dying. If you are sensitive to this material but still want to read the chapter, please come tell me on my tumblr (url information in the notes below.)

"It's not like there is a ghost following you. Only her memory." Michael breathed out deeply through his mouth, slumping down in his reupholstered floral chair and watching his breath mingle with the dust particles being illuminated by a rare ray of sunlight. The days in London were too often smoggy and the skies dim and weeping, and it brought memories floating back of his mother's gruesome demise.

_Smoke. Ashes drifting lazily from the crying sky like black rain. Roars of approval. And the quiet, tortured sobs being drawn out of the small boy in the shadows._

Michael felt something wet strike his hand, and assuming it was raining _again,_ he inwardly sighed. Then the boy remembered: he was inside. He frantically wiped at his cheeks, effectively smearing the falling tears.

"Mr. Clifford?" " _Mr. Clifford,_ " a drawling, impatient voice rang out. Michael looked out from under his eyelashes at his self-appointed secretary, Ashton. He was sure he looked pathetic, half crying and half glaring, but at the moment the worry was like a dull thud, easily ignored. "It's time for the meeting. Do you _remember, sir_? The _very important_ meeting." Every word was like a lash's bite.

This was it. Michael's moment. If he did well, he would be accepted into one of the most prestigious incorporations as an industrial designer. It was his dream to become an inventor, but his inventions had been so far useless. Michael felt like he was on the verge of a breakthrough, something that could change the world, but Ashton and him needed this money to survive another week.

Michael stumbled out of the meeting an hour later, trying desperately to keep a hold on his briefcase with sweat-slicked hands. Rebuffed. Again.

Ashton was eagerly waiting in the common area, but from a infinitesimal shake of Michael's head, he sobered up. They walked without acknowledging each other through the fresh downpour, and Michael only grunted in response when Ashton waved good-bye at his stop.

The memories of Michael's mother's public death remained untouched and unchanged, lingering at the back of his mind during the day and resurfacing to haunt him at night. So every day, He had followed the same monotonous routine: wake up (usually screaming from nightmarish visions of his past), go to work, eat, go to bed, and then lay awake for uncountable hours waiting for the scarring dreams to begin. Tonight was no different.

_"No!" the boy screeched, launching himself towards the platform in desperation. Upon his realization that it was fruitless, he collapsed miserably onto the earth, allowing the dust and ashes mingling in the air to cling to the tear trails on his face. He appeared, at first glance, to be poverty-ridden, judging by the threadbare scraps of cloth that clung to his malnourished frame and the signs of weariness that he bore beneath his tired eyes; His tousled dark hair hung limply around his pale face, and his rusty-hued, sunken eyes were brimming with pain. The youth could not have been more than ten years, yet his expression made him appear almost... broken. As though he had been shattered into a million pieces, then been crudely repaired until he almost looked whole again. Almost whole. Not quite. It was Michael._

_Of course, he had a good reason to look so morose._

_His mother had just been burned at the stake._

_As the young boy glanced up, a dark shadow enveloped him in its shadow. It was wearing a pressed black suit, a leather briefcase dangling leisurely from a crooked arm. But these were all afterthoughts. The first thing Michael's brain processed was the wrist-watch he was pushing towards his face. "Your time is almost up."_

Michael woke up with a jolt, his head smacking into the bed frame with a resounding crack. Michael knew him. He knew the man from his dream. He had seen him countlessly throughout the work day, passing Michael on the subway, tipping his hat to him on the street, two people in front of him in a queue. Was he stalking Michael? Surely the man didn't know him. He'd never spoken a single word to Michael save for that day. But were all the occurrences with the same man?

Michael let out a surprised gasp as a memory from a month ago came flooding back to him.

A group of men at the doorstep. Pressed suits. Clenched fists. Agitated glances _. Click_. The bolt of the lock sliding home.

How did he not realize that they were at his house before?

They had returned too. Every week since. Stolen glances out the window, Michael hoping they'd leave. Wondering what they wanted.

For the rest of the night, he drifted in and out of an uneasy slumber. He recollected vividly all the dreams, none of them about the suit-clad men.

When Michael woke up for the final time, there were flames outside his flat's window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want, you can visit me at foodmichael.tumblr.com for questions/feedback about the fic or just to talk. Have a great day and thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> If you want, you can visit me at foodmichael.tumblr.com for questions/feedback about the fic or just to talk. Have a great day and thanks for reading!


End file.
